


Gas-N-Sip

by ReverendKilljoy



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, NCIS
Genre: F/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 09:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReverendKilljoy/pseuds/ReverendKilljoy
Summary: Caffeine, forensics, classic film reference, and a 24-hour convenience store in DC.





	Gas-N-Sip

**Author's Note:**

> It helps if you've seen both "Ghostbusters" and "Harold and Maude."

Abigail Sciuto stood, parasol twirling idly in one hand as she held the gas pump handle in the other. The dappled patterns of sunlight coming through the black lace parasol glinted and danced across the gleaming surface of her car.

Her car. The phrase didn’t do it justice. She took a moment to appreciate anew, despite long familiarity, the beauty of her vehicle. The  1959 Cadillac Superior Hearse was the most iconic vehicle of the Goth scene, the “Harold and Maude” hearse, the same platform as the Ghostbusters’ ectomobile. And Abby’s was pristine.

As the tank filled and the pumps shuddered to a stop, Abby took a moment to adjust the opera-length black silk gloves she wore to shield her from the rising sun. She’d been working 44 hours straight and was leaving work at a ridiculously bright and chipper hour. All she wanted to do was go home and hit the white satin padding of her coffin.

As she looked across the pavement to the other cluster of pumps, she saw a slender young man, with a tightly tailored mod-cut suit, head into the convenience store portion of the Gas-N-Sip. He had a shock of sandy hair, drooping slightly over his right eye, and under his maroon jacket, he wore a faded, possibly vintage t-shirt advertising _Richard Hell and the Voidoids_. He took a long slow look at her over his John Lennon square-cut shades as he walked jarringly into the door-frame of the Gas-N-Sip.

She laughed despite herself, and he sheepishly collected himself and went inside. After putting the hose back in its socket and securing her gas cap, she followed him inside.

She went to the beverage center and secured a MegaDouble cup and sprinkled it lightly with ice, before sliding it home to fill with CafPow. As the life-giving elixir bubbled into her oversized cup, Abby watched in the distorted reflection of the beverage center fascia as the man in the mod suit bought a six-pack of Red Bull and a DC map. She hurried just a little to catch up with him as he was exiting the building, and he jumped a little when she spoke to him.

“That isn't the one you want,” she said, taking a long pull from the bright red straw of the CafPow.

“No?” he was a little confused and startled, having missed her coming up behind him. Impressively, he seemed to be staring at her eyes, not her tatts, her neckline or her hemline. Score one for the boy.

“The map, purely tourist. If you want a decent DC map, try the red one there.” She nodded back over her shoulder at the rack by the door.

“Oh?” He glanced, and then she saw a smile as he caught sight of the spider web tattoo reaching forward from the nape of her neck. “What makes you think I’m not a tourist? Maybe this map is perfect for me.”

“You don’t have the look. No one wears a _Voidoids_ shirt to see the Smithsonian.”

“Are you really in a position to comment on appropriate attire?” She saw the wince even as he finished speaking. That had not come out right.

“I mean,” he shook his head, muttering to himself. “Sorry, that was just really hot of you. Nice!” He gulped. “Nice of you!”

She laughed and the tip of her tongue sneaked between her teeth for a moment as she grinned at his discomfort.

“Where are you trying to go?” They strolled towards her car. As she fumbled with keys and CafPow and parasol, he smoothly took the parasol and held it for her, keeping the sun off her pale skin. He did it with unassuming grace, so at odds with the verbal stammering he’d done earlier. He smelled good.

“The Smithsonian,” he replied without irony, He took a moment to appraise her car, with something close to lust in his eyes. “Nice, nice ride. It’s a real ’59?”

“I should have seen it coming. Boys using me as a ploy to get to my car. Yes, a real ’59, but some of the coachwork is rebuilt.”

He shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the hearse.

“I’m not using you. Well, not for the car. I really do need to get to the Smithsonian, I’m afraid.”

“You really are a tourist?” She slipped behind the wheel and began to peel off her gloves. They were kept in the glove compartment, which seemed apropos. He watched with a wry, hungry look as her arms were exposed. She felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the rapidly rising sun.

“No, I have to give a speech there.” He checked his watch. “In about 45 minutes.”

“Ouch! You’re going to be late if you don’t fly. What are you talking about?”

He blushed a little, actually blushed, and mumbled, “Identification and Estimation of Methaqualone in Toffee Samples Using Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectrometry, Fourier Transform Infrared Spectrometry, and High-Performance Thin-Layer Chromatography.”

Her eyes went wide. “I read that! Barbiturate sats in candy! You’re the candy man? I read that paper! It rocked!”

He blinked, and blinked again. “You’re a criminalist?”

She laughed, and held out a hand. “Abigail Sciuto, NCIS.”

He took her hand, but rather than shake it, he turned it over and kissed the palm, gently. His mouth was warm and promising, but not overly aggressive or slobbery. She clenched her thighs together so tightly her fishnet leggings almost squeaked. Shivers ran right up her spine in a most promising way.

“Greg, Greg Sanders. Las Vegas crime lab. I’m sorry, but I really do have to make that speech. Can I, I mean, would it be forward of me to call you some time, Abigail? I’m in town a couple days, at least.”

“What the hell, I want to hear your speech, then we can talk after. Just follow me, I’ll show you a short cut.”

He smiled, and smacked his hands together enthusiastically. 

“My lady, you got yourself a deal!” He hurried towards his car, still parked on the other side of the station, obscured by the pump island.

“What are you driving?” Abby called after him. “I don’t want to miss you.”

“You won’t!” he called back with a laugh. 

She buckled carefully, took a breath to calm herself a little, and pulled forward, then looked in the rear view mirror to see if he was following. She started to laugh, and at the same time, a thrill went through her that had nothing to do with hearing a forensics lecture.

Behind her, Nevada plate proclaiming “LAB RAT,” was Greg’s car, a 1971 Jaguar E-type, black on black, with a hearse framing back end, the spitting image replica of Harold’s car from “Harold and Maude.” Behind the wheel, Greg grinned and threw her a jaunty salute as they pulled onto the highway.

The two hearses sped down the road like a very unusual high-speed funeral procession, and Abby took a deep pull of her CafPow. She figured she just might need the energy later today, and she didn’t want to be at all sleepy.


End file.
